


Balls to the Wall

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Marriage Proposal, Organized Crime, Police Brutality, Smuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:36:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Frances Killian proposed to the Enclave agent interrogating him, he didn't expect her to say yes. (Common prequel to all the Sparrow Finlay stories).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balls to the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for mentions of death, violence, police brutality and organised crime. I like to create elaborate head-canons around my characters and Sparrow Finlay, nee Killian, definitely has one of the most intricate. This little one-shot revolves around her parents – the Boston Brahmin intelligence officer Elisabeth Killian, nee Ahern, and the Boston Irish mobster Frances Killian – and how they met.

 

“Jesus, Killian, I can’t get you out of this one.”

            Nick Valentine lit a cigarette, smoke wreathing around his lean olive face as he looked down at the Irishman handcuffed to the chair, face puffed up from the BADTFL officers’ ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’. “Smokes or booze, sure. But oil? Head’s gonna roll.”

            “Of course it is, Nick.” Frances found it in him to smile up at his old friend. Half-Italian and half-Irish, Valentine had to either leave town or join the cops. He was still a good man, probably too good for the crime clans and _definitely_ too good for BADTFL. “The Cabots, the Croups and all the other rich bastards can make themselves a pretty penny illegally selling oil to their buddies but the Good Lord forbid I sell a few gallons here and there to families.”

            The detective’s grimace said it all. “I’ll see if I can get your remains sent back to Mama Killian,” he promised.

            “Mo bhuíochas, mo chara.” ‘My gratitude, my friend’ in Gaeilge. Truly too good a man for BADTFL.

            “Detective Valentine?” A woman’s voice, warm and sweet as whiskey, drew his attention away from Frances. “May I speak to the prisoner?”

            “I can’t stop you, Agent Ahern.” Nick touched his fedora, threw a sad brown gaze in Frances’ direction, and went to file another useless report.

            The dame who entered the interrogation room was pure class. Long brown hair, fine-boned features, doe-dark eyes and a delicate frame wrapped in fine worsted wool. Frances cracked a smile and said, “D.I.A.?”

            Agent Ahern raised an eyebrow. “They answer to who I work for.”

            “Well, well. Oil that precious I get sent one of the mythical Enclave to interrogate me?” It was almost flattering. Frances didn’t think the Killians were that important.

            “Actually, you stumbled into something completely by accident and managed to flush out a traitor.” Ahern studied Killian like he was a pot of gold found in a pile of shit. “I believe in rewarding service to your country.”

            There was a lot Frances could say to that starting with the request for a beer to getting his remains returned to his mother when the BADTFL were done with him. Instead he decided to go balls to the wall and ask for the moon. “Marry me?”

            Ahern stared at him for a moment before cracking up, her laughter a warm and alive thing in this cold dark concrete cellar. When she stopped, there was a definite twinkle in her eye. “Luí dom, dathúil.”

            _Convince me, handsome._ “Geall leat do chuid súl milis beidh mé.” _You bet your sweet eyes I will._

Killian then demonstrated that he was flexible by dislocating his thumbs and getting the fucking cuffs off, leaning forward to smile at Agent Ahern. He didn’t want to hurt a woman, even one from the Enclave, so he hoped that she wouldn’t try to stop him. “What brings a fine broad like you to a dump like BADTFL?”

            “You.” Her answer was calm as he steepled his fingers in front of him. “Frances Killian, escaped from the draft by punching a soldier in the face and technically guilty of treason, hijacking a Poseidon Energy oil truck to give oil to the impoverished of Quincy and Concord.”

            “I got clan there,” he said tersely. “Teaghlaigh do Theaghlaigh.”

            “Family for family.” She sighed. “Your loyalty is admirable. But you need to look beyond the clan to the bigger picture.”

            She stood up and looked out the window blindly. Frances followed the graceful lines of her slender body. “There will be war. Not this year, maybe not next year, but definitely within three or four. The United Nations will break down and chaos will follow.”

            “Been war before,” Frances pointed out.

            “Not war for the last few oilfields on Earth.” Ahern’s voice was grim.

            He didn’t need a Murphy woman’s Sight to see where she was going. “Nuclear war.”

            “Nuclear war,” Ahern agreed. “Some of my colleagues would welcome it. I… would rather preserve something for the future.”

            She leaned forward and met his eyes squarely. “Vaults are being built. Help me with all your contacts, all your ruthlessness, and I will see as much of your family as I can get into one. Mo focal ar sé.”

            _My word on it._

“I only care about the Killians,” Frances shot back. “Let the bombs fall. Maybe they’ll wipe the rich bastards away.”

            “They’ll also wipe the Killians, the Finlays, the Murphies and the Savoldis away,” Ahern countered grimly. “I’m offering you the chance to save at least some of your family, Frances!”

            “Why me? Surely the Cabots or the Croups can help you.”

            “Because you got yourself caught helping others.” Ahern sighed in frustration. “The Croups and the Cabots know what’s coming and want to save themselves. I… want to save some others.”

            “What about your own family?” Frances pointed out.

            “Tá mé aon cheann, mac tú soith!” _I have none, you son of a bitch!_

Frances flinched at the raw pain in her voice. Then he smiled lazily. Balls to the wall. “Marry me and you would.”

            “I can’t save you from the draft. Already they’ve sent soldiers from Fort Hagen to pick you up.”

            _Fuck._

“But I can keep you where it’s relatively safe.” Ahern hugged herself, suddenly vulnerable. “Supply and logistics. Back of the lines, nice warm office, doing what you do best. And if you’re willing to do a little more on the side for your country, you and your clan can prosper.”

            Frances smiled slightly. “Now we’re talking, mo stór.”

            He knew that the little more would involve all the dirty deeds a lad from the crime clans could do.

            Ahern suddenly paused, looking at him with those deep brown eyes. “My name is Elisabeth. And I’ll do it.”

            “Do what?”

            “Marry you.”

            Frances nearly fell off his seat in shock when he realised that she was serious.


End file.
